


Alone and Palely Loitering

by RileyC



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Bordeaux, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23827654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: In the wake of Bordeaux, Methos believes there is no hope of rebuilding his friendship with Duncan, let alone anything else. And then fate--or is it the ghost of Darius?--steps in...
Relationships: Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	Alone and Palely Loitering

Feeling the buzz of another Immortal, Methos shifted around on a chair, watching the door as Duncan MacLeod came into the church. The Highlander paused just inside the door, obviously surprised to find Methos there.

“Are you meeting someone?” MacLeod asked, doing a poor job of concealing his suspicion.

 _It would always be there now,_ Methos thought. That easy trust between them was gone forever. He tried to ignore the pang of regret he felt at that, telling himself it was something he should be accustomed to by now: not knowing how important something – someone – had become to him, until it was too late to do anything about it.

“No. I just came here to think,” he answered, belatedly realizing MacLeod probably regarded Darius’ church as his own private sanctuary.

“Oh.” MacLeod took a seat a few rows away, tentatively perched there, looking as if he couldn’t decide whether to settle back or spring up and bolt for the door.

Before the silence could become too awkward, Methos said, “Are you expecting someone?”

MacLeod shook his head, easing back in the chair a little more. “It’s a good place to think.”

After Methos agreed that it was, all conversational gambits appeared to have been exhausted. Proper etiquette, Methos supposed, would be for one of them to get up and leave, but he was tired of avoiding places MacLeod might turn up – and he had as much right to be there. He had known Darius long before the Highlander had even been born, after all.

“So how’ve you been?” MacLeod asked out of the blue, when the silence had dragged out long enough to lose its edge and become something that would have been companionable quiet – once upon a time.

“Fine.” 

“You’re back in Paris?”

“Apparently.”

“You think that’s wise? Someone might recognize you.”

“What if they do?” Maybe the Watchers knew all about him now, maybe they didn’t. Either way he couldn’t see them sending out a goon squad after him – not so soon after that debacle between Galati and Shapiro. 

“Was Kronos the only reason you were hiding, then?” MacLeod asked, persisting in trying to make conversation.

A treacherous ember of hope was warming in Methos’ belly, making him wonder if the Highlander might be trying to reach out – make the first move that would lead them back to each other. He didn’t see how talking about Kronos could help, though. “He was part of the reason, yes.” Of course hiding from Kronos was what had brought him to Darius’ doorsteps all those years ago.

It had been a thousand years and more since he had parted with the Horsemen, reshaping himself, revising his life into a version he found easier to live with – the excised bits creeping back to haunt him in nightmares, though not so often nor so vividly after a time. If he had consciously thought of Kronos at all, it was a memory jogged by encountering some other happy maniac, and then to suppose – to fervently hope – that someone had long since taken Kronos’ head.

Then, walking out into the dawn light of a very different Paris, seven centuries past, he had seen Kronos dismounting from a horse, just across the street. He never knew if Kronos recognized him; he hadn’t cared to stay around to find out, but had quickly vanished down the nearest alley. He could still remember the sick sense of shock he had felt, the desire to immediately be somewhere far, far away. How to tell that to Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, who had probably never run from a fight in his life?

****Paris – 1271** **

Only wanting the nearest church, Methos was brought up short as he sensed another Immortal nearby, a very different resonance from Kronos’. It seemed to emanate from the small church just across the way, and Methos recalled rumors he’d heard, of a powerful Immortal – the general of a vast army – who had taken holy orders here in Paris. Was this the one? And was it true sanctuary? Methos wondered, and decided it hardly mattered under the circumstances – even Kronos respected the rule of holy ground.

A curious sense of peace settled on him when he had entered the church and closed the doors behind him, leaning against them for a few moments, aware of the other Immortal coming towards him. For a second his eyes were dazzled by the early morning light streaming through the windows, then he made out a tall, lanky figure clad in a brown habit, hands folded before him as he regarded Methos with friendly curiosity.

“Welcome. I am Darius.”

Methos offered his current pseudonym, “My name is Ambrose.” He cocked his head, studying the other man, sensing a great deal of power in him, wondering how old he was – and how true the rumors were. “I’ve heard of a Darius who led an army to the gates of Paris, who might have been the greatest ruler this world has known – until he was transformed and laid down his arms.” The other Immortal heard him out with a maddeningly bland expression in his green eyes. “Are you that Darius?”

“I was. Now I am this Darius.”

As if it could ever really be that easy, to cast off one life and assume another, Methos thought. You might try, but the past was always there, waiting to ambush you when least expected.

“You’ve no objections, Darius, to my staying here for awhile?”

The priest shook his head. “Is it that you wish to avoid someone?”

Why not answer truthfully, for once? “Yes, it is.”

“Then remain as long as you need. Perhaps you are hungry? Some tea, at least?”

The offer of tea was tempting, something to chase away the cold feeling in his stomach. “Yes, tea, thank you.”

Darius nodded and smiled. “You might be more comfortable in my rectory.” No doubt seeing a glint of wary suspicion in Methos’ eyes, Darius added, “This is all holy ground, you know. You will be perfectly safe here, Ambrose.”

There was no such thing as perfectly safe, Methos knew, but at the same time he supposed this came as near as anything might. After another moment’s hesitation, he nodded and followed as Darius led him to a chamber that, if it was sparsely furnished, was at least free of drafts, a fire burning on the hearth and a pot of water heating there.

“Please,” Darius gestured him to a chair, busying himself with making the tea. “Have you journeyed far?”

“Recently or cumulatively?” Methos covetously eyed the stacks of books Darius had laying about, his fingers itching to examine them.

“Either. Both.” Darius brought him a steaming cup of fragrant tea.

“Far enough to appreciate this,” Methos said, choosing to evade the issue of his age. Accepting the cup, he held it between his palms, letting the heat seep into him, easing the cold stiffness in his fingers. Tasting the tea, he found it slightly bitter, but not so much he couldn’t appreciate the way it spread warmth through him. The tensions of the morning easing away, he narrowed his eyes with suspicion as he looked at the priest. “Is this poisoned?”

Darius grinned at him. “Certainly not! It calms the nerves, nothing more.”

“And you’re out of the Game.” It was less a question, more a thoughtful observation.

“For a very long time now.”

Methos hoped Darius wasn’t duping him, but trust was such a fragile commodity in any age…

****1997** **

“Sometimes I think he’s still here,” MacLeod was saying. “That I can sense him. Do you think that’s possible?”

Methos looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because he died on holy ground…?” It was something he had wondered, too, something he and Darius had talked of, but there was no way of knowing. “Anything’s possible.” Sometimes he thought he could feel a presence here, as though something of Darius haunted the place.

A tiny smile touched MacLeod’s mouth; Methos wished it could linger, that it could stay and light up the Highlander’s eyes again – there was something so…woebegone in the younger man’s expression. “I guess we’re proof of that.”

Methos sighed, his breath misting in the chilly air. “It’s possible.”

“And your teacher couldn’t tell you anything more than we know now?”

Methos frowned thoughtfully, not minding the conversation really, only wondering what it was in aid of. “I never had a teacher, not really.” Certainly not the kind MacLeod meant. “One moment I was dead, the next I wasn’t, and I spent the next years – maybe decades, maybe centuries,” even now he didn’t know, couldn’t be certain how much time elapsed between his first death and his first Quickening, “trying to get a clue. What I did learn was mostly by trial and error.” And not only about his own nature, but that of others: how easily friendship, even love, could become distrust and fear – or exploitation. His cynicism had been no idle acquisition.

“How did you die? The first time, I mean.”

As if the eight million ways since were of no consequence, Methos thought sourly, even as he knew that was unfair. What, but the carefully edited, deliberately insouciant version of himself did Duncan MacLeod know, after all? Well, until very recently anyway.

He shifted around, folding his arms across his chest. “My brother murdered me – and no, his name wasn’t Cain.” The smile flitted over MacLeod’s face again, there and gone in an instant. “I never knew why.” He frowned, wishing he could bring the memory into sharper focus. Like so much of his earliest life, though, it was only a few, indistinct images. “I don’t really remember him. There’s just a vague impression of some vicious little bastard bashing my head in.” _Not unlike Kronos, perhaps?_ Methos considered, weighing the significance of that and deciding it probably wasn’t worth pursuing.

At least MacLeod didn’t say something stupid, like how he was sorry. It was all way too long ago to matter.

Would that were true of everything.

“What time is it?”

MacLeod took out his pocket watch to check. “Half past four. Are you supposed to be somewhere?”

“No.” He had nowhere to go and nothing to do except hone his ability to watch time go by. There was certainly no one waiting for him.

There was a time that wouldn’t have mattered that much. Casual acquaintances had suited him well enough. Don and Christine had been a little more than casual, of course, but even then always shadowed by his Immortality, having to hide it like a guilty secret. He had begun to think Don suspected something. He’d caught the mortal looking at him, thoughtful, and then saying something like, _‘You know, Adam, I came across a photograph of you the other day, from when you first joined the Watchers – I’d swear you haven’t aged a day. Wish I knew your secret.’_ Once or twice Methos had even been tempted to tell him, thinking Don deserved to know he hadn’t devoted his life to chasing after a myth, but in the end Methos had always held back, not able to take that little extra leap of faith, of trust.

Not until Duncan MacLeod discovered him, until Joe Dawson exhibited only fascination that his friend, Adam Pierson, was the 5000-year-old-man. Only then had he realized the liberation in dropping the masquerade, just a little, and letting himself _be_ Methos again. He could only wonder, now, if it might have been worth the risks to trust a little further, to put away all the disguises. The result might have been exactly the same, MacLeod still recoiling from him in disgust. He’d never know.

The silence had grown awkward again, finally broken by MacLeod saying, his tone casual, diffident, “I don’t suppose you’d want to go have a drink?”

Methos blinked, surprised. “With you?”

“No – with the bloody Hunchback of Notre Dame.” There wasn’t much bite in the retort – just enough to let Methos it had been no idle invitation. “Yes,” MacLeod added, something gentler in his voice, “with me. If you want.”

_If_ he wanted? “Yes, all right.”

MacLeod nodded and stood up, looking him up and down. “When was the last time you ate?”

“This morning.” 

“Yeah?”

“MacLeod, starving to death is not one of my favorite ways to die. Take my word on that, at least.” Standing, Methos pulled his coat in around himself. “I’ve just been…preoccupied.” And everything pretty much tasted like sawdust lately.

Hands in his coat pockets, MacLeod nodded again. “Yeah, I know.” He sounded like he might have missed a few meals himself, had some sleepless nights – but if so it had to be concern over Cassandra eating him up. 

Even as Methos told himself that, though, he couldn’t help a treacherous wish that, maybe, there had been some brief moment’s concern directed his way. Not very likely, of course, but that’s what hope did to you.

They stood there for a couple of uncomfortable moments, neither quite meeting the other’s eyes, then MacLeod headed toward the door, and almost neutral, “Well, you coming?” thrown over his shoulder.

Methos went, falling into step beside him.

****1271** **

With Darius off to perform some priestly duty or another Methos indulged his curiosity in the books, running caressing fingers over the bindings, over the words as he leafed through the pages. It never ceased to delight him that history, the whole panoply of life, could be preserved simply by the formation of a set of symbols upon a sheet of paper. And that it had all arisen out of something as prosaic as the Sumerian’s wanting to keep track of business transactions. Now it was used to record everything, from mundane minutia to the transcendent musings of poetry and philosophy. He honestly rated literacy as every bit as important as skill with a blade. Where was the sense in preserving one’s head, after all, if you didn’t have something in it?

When Darius hadn’t returned after a couple of hours, Methos gave into another temptation, one very unworthy in view of the way Darius had made him welcome, but he needed to make sure for himself that the other Immortal really was out of the Game. And although there were countless hiding spots in the church, Methos reckoned the man’s living quarters were the most sensible place to begin.

He was on his knees, groping under the bed, when he sensed Darius’ return – and turned with a guilty flush to find the priest regarding him with only wry amusement in his pale eyes.

“Perhaps if you told me what you were looking for, I could help you find it.”

Methos considered lying, but suspected there would be little point to it. “I was looking for your sword.”

“Ah, yes. I believe a former compatriot of mine has it now. The last I heard of him, he was in India – although that was something like one hundred years ago.”

Methos sighed, getting to his feet and brushing off his surcoat. He wondered if he should apologize, then realized there was no need: Darius was no more offended than he was surprised.

Instead Darius said, “Another of our kind came to the church a little while ago – with a scar, here,” he drew a line down the right side of his face. “He said he was looking for a friend and described someone very like you, Ambrose.”

Tensing, right hand going to the hilt of the sword at his left hip, Methos said, “What did you tell him?”

“That I had not seen such a man, of course. He may not have believed me,” Darius’ shoulders lifted in a sanguine shrug, “but I persuaded him to leave.”

“He isn’t someone easily persuaded.”

Darius smiled. “I noticed that.”

In fact, Methos soon found, very little got past the priest. Darius didn’t pry, he never demanded confidences from ‘Ambrose’ as his due – no, Darius simply laid the pattern for Methos to follow, speaking of his own past with a rueful objectivity and leaving Methos to follow suit, or not, as it pleased him.

At first it pleased Methos to continue hoarding his secrets to himself. As there was every reason to suppose Kronos was still in the vicinity, he had thought to steal away under cover of darkness, a couple of nights after taking refuge in the church. That night, however, as he had stepped out into the chill night air, he had perceived another Immortal lurking somewhere nearby, just outside the boundary of holy ground – and he had beaten a hasty retreat back into the confines of the church. Of course it might not have been Kronos, it might have been anyone, but Methos was always inclined to indulge discretion, await a better time – and it was no particular hardship to stay on at the church. Darius asked nothing of him, after all…and there were all those books.

One day, and Methos wasn’t even certain how long he had already tarried – two weeks, more? – Darius said, “I have made inquiries, by the way. Your friend with the scar has left Paris.”

Looking up from a book – an exquisite volume of Chretien de Troyes’ Lancelot (chivalric fantasy – Arthur’s court had never been _that_ lofty), Methos felt an unsuspected burden lift. He had not sat there every day consciously dwelling on the prospect of encountering Kronos outside this cloister, but supposed some niggling apprehension had been eating at him – and had not gone unnoticed by Darius. “Thank you.”

“Will you be leaving now?”

That had been the plan: lie low until Kronos gave up and went away, then depart himself – and cross his fingers it was in the opposite direction. It was only sensible; his only safety lay in solitude. In his quiet, unobtrusive way, though, Darius had reminded Methos of the pleasure to be found in congenial company, and he found himself oddly loath to be on his way. “I suppose I should go,” he said with some reluctance.

If Darius heard it he gave no sign, only going to the hearth to put on a fresh pot of water. “It’s beginning to snow, rather heavily. The roads will be treacherous.”

“Oh. Well, I might wait until the weather clears.” And in truth Methos had no desire to travel in bad weather – but he recognized that Darius was offering him an invitation to stay, if he wanted. Curiously, he found that he did, and wondered how long the winter would last.

****1997** **

Preferring something hot, Methos sat in a café, long fingers curving around a steaming cup of tea, not looking at MacLeod – or anything, really. It was simply pleasant to be here, to be warm. He focused on MacLeod then, noting the faraway look in his eyes. To himself, Methos could admit this burgeoning sense of well-being had something to do with the company he was keeping – almost everything, in fact. It was very likely, he told himself, that when they had drunk their tea they would go their separate ways and that would be that, but at least it offered a more amicable parting than they had previously achieved in Bordeaux.

He just wished… But where was the sense in wishing for the moon? He sighed, gazing into the amber depths of his teacup.

“What are you thinking about?” MacLeod asked.

“A thousand regrets.” More, probably, if he diligently tallied them up.

“We all have those.”

“Yes.”

MacLeod sighed now. “When did you meet Darius?”

“Twelve…something.”

“Don’t you have it down in your journals?”

“Probably. I don’t exactly cart them around with me, though.” Methos wondered what lay behind all these questions, why MacLeod was asking them _now_ when it was past mattering. And how different might things be if they had spoken like this before, if MacLeod had pressed for details – if _he_ hadn’t been so chary of every revelation. A classic moot point, of course; MacLeod hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t offered – and look at the wonderful place that had got them. 

MacLeod took a sip of his tea, looking out the window at a woman struggling with her umbrella as the wind drove the rain down harder. “Have you got everything recorded in your journals?”

Methos also watched the rain. “Not everything, no.” 

“Hmm, _Rashomon_ must be one of your favorite films,” MacLeod said – and looked as if he regretted the words even as they left his mouth. “Methos—“

With a resigned shake of his head Methos sat back. “No, it’s true; there’s my version of the truth – and there’s everyone else’s.” He shrugged, knowing it was Cassandra’s version that carried the most weight with the Highlander. He had hoped, for one brief moment, that it might count for something that he hadn’t tried to gloss over everything, paint himself and his actions in a better light when he offered MacLeod his version. It had been a little late in the day for offering total honesty, though, he suspected. “The further I got from the events, the easier it was to reconstruct them,” he said, drawing idle patterns on the tabletop. “To reconstruct myself into something more palatable.” He mouth twisted with a rueful smile. “So much for me being the realist.” 

MacLeod was looking at him thoughtfully, somberly. “Would you have ever told me about it?”

“Ever?” Methos’ voice invested the word, the concept, with irony, his shoulders lifting again. “Maybe. I don’t know.” The impulse had been there a time or two, as he slowly peeled away the layers, revealing one more aspect of himself, then another, so MacLeod would start to understand that there was so much more to Methos than Adam Pierson. 

“Did you ever tell Darius?”

A dollop of real humor in his smile, Methos said, “What do you think?”

****1271** **

Although he had been playing the game for centuries and had thought himself fairly proficient at it, Methos had yet to play Darius to anything but a draw at chess – and he suspected those couple of times were more likely due to luck than skill. As Darius straightened the board after the just completed game, in which Methos had once more been thoroughly outflanked and checkmated, Methos reflected that the cloistered life had done nothing to diminish the man’s tactical expertise.

“It’s fortunate,” he said, “that you were not the Darius that Alexander faced in Babylon.”

Elbows on the table, hands clasped before him, Darius considered the comment seriously and nodded. “I once thought so, too. I would study the campaigns of the great generals, looking for that one moment, that one incident, that caused the tide of a battle to turn one way and not another.” He shrugged and smiled. “It seemed important at the time.”

“Were you,” Methos hesitated a moment, but continued at Darius’ prompt, “arrogant enough to think that, could you have faced him, you would have bested Alexander?”

With an engaging grin, Darius nodded. “I was – and Hannibal, Caesar, all of them. Of course much of that confidence was because of my Immortality.”

“But not all of it?”

“Sadly no. I do not recall that I was ever commended for my modesty, in those days.”

Methos took a deep breath, then released it slowly, reaching to fiddle with one of the chess pieces – a finely wrought knight, the cool stone somehow comforting. “Do you regret that period of your life?” he asked, eyes intent on the board. “All the lives you must have taken, or caused to be taken?”

For once quite serious, Darius answered softly. “Yes, very much.”

“Yet…regret changes nothing. All those people are still dead.”

“Yes, they are.”

Methos looked up. “You don’t seem burdened by it, though,” he stated, finally voicing the observation, marveling at it a little. “Is it because your god says they are all taken up to heaven?”

“It is because my God says all things, even those most deplorable and painful, are to some purpose, although we may not see or understand that purpose clearly.”

“’Through a glass, darkly,’” Methos quoted, half to himself.

Darius nodded. “And to everything its season.”

Meeting the pale eyes straight on, Methos said, “I stopped believing in any gods a very long time ago, Darius. I don’t know if I believe in yours – but I like some of what he has to say.” He paused, weighing his thoughts as he weighed that most mercurial of chess pieces. “What if…” He faltered, gave Darius a helpless look and started to turn away.

Reaching out, Darius touched his arm. “What if…?”

Taking a deep, calming breath, squaring his shoulders, daring to meet that patient, level gaze, Methos said, “What if I told you that I have broken every law of man, and of your god, more times than I can remember? And that I took pleasure in it?” He winced at calling it that – but, any god help him, it had once been true; the power he had wielded had been intoxicating – to grant life or death to the mortals he encountered, to _be_ a god. Walking away from that had been the hardest thing he had ever done.

“Is that something you’re likely to tell me?” Darius said in a mild voice, no trace of reproach coloring his tones – and Methos wanted to laugh. Or weep.

“It is.” He took another deep breath, wishing he had a god to pray to as he took this leap of faith. “My name isn’t Ambrose.”

“I never thought it was.”

“It’s Methos,” he said, and saw Darius’ eyes light with recognition. “And I once rode with the Horsemen.”

Darius nodded at that as well. “And the man who was here, looking for you?”

“That was Kronos – my brother, my…closest companion for a thousand years.” Methos waited, expecting condemnation, to be ordered from the premises. When it didn’t come, he demanded, “Well? Don’t you have anything to say?”

Sighing, Darius stood up, going over to retrieve a jar of wine and two cups. “I think we can both use this,” he said, handing a cup to Methos as he sat back down.

****1997** **

“He said what mattered was that I had left the Horsemen, that I had tried to change -- that I _was_ changing. That no one was past redemption if they sincerely repented of their actions.” Methos shivered, drawing his coat around him. It had stopped raining as he and MacLeod walked, but the temperature continued to dip and it smelled like snow was in the air. “I even believed him for a long time,” he added, shaking his head at that, that he could have ever been that naïve.

MacLeod paused on the sidewalk, looking at him with a troubled expression in his dark eyes. “When did you stop believing?”

Methos considered evasion, but decided it could hardly make matters worse between them – and he had lied to this man enough. Never with malice, nor even a desire to deceive; only to preserve a good impression, to enjoy a friendship he had come to value more than he could have known. “When I saw the disgust in your eyes,” he said, softly, turning to walk away, knowing it was time for this to end.

He was surprised when rapid footsteps came after him and a hand caught his shoulder, stopping him. 

“Methos, it wasn’t disgust,” MacLeod said. “Disappointment…a lot of things.” He gestured a little helplessly, and that jarred on Methos’ perception. Duncan MacLeod – helpless? Never. Yet the impression lingered: that MacLeod was a little lost, a little off his axis, too. “I want to understand. I’m trying to.”

“Why should you?”

“Because you’re my friend, damn it. Because… Methos, you’re important to me. That’s why I hated it, why it…hurt so bad.”

Methos had no idea what to say to that; it was the last thing he had expected to ever hear from this man. 

After a moment MacLeod went on, “You said it’s not in my nature to forgive what you’ve done. I’d like to prove you wrong about that.” He looked at the rain-slicked pavement. “That morning, at the dojo, what were you going to say before Cassandra turned up?”

“Goodbye. I was going to tell you I had to leave town, and then I was going to run – try and disappear again, somewhere Kronos couldn’t find me.”

“And where I couldn’t find you, either?” The Highlander’s dark eyes searched his intently.

“Mac… What choice did I have?”

“To trust me,” MacLeod answered in a heartfelt, anguished tone. “To let me help.”

Methos shook his head, gesturing emptily. “Mac, can you honestly say that if I had told you everything, you would have done anything but gone for my head?”

“ _Yes._ ” Frustrated, MacLeod paced away a few steps, then turned back. “Yes, I would have been angry, but we could have worked it through.” He came back, close. “Why didn’t you give us that chance, Methos? Why couldn’t you trust me with the truth?”

“Because I…I didn’t want you to hate me,” Methos finally admitted, beginning to see just how very badly he had handled all of this.

A hand touched his shoulder and he looked up from contemplating a puddle, his eyes caught by MacLeod’s. “Methos, has it all been lies?” Rain began to spatter them again. “All the times you were there for me – was it all just some game? Was any of it true?”

Methos wanted to look away from those dark eyes; he didn’t want to see the hurt there, that he’d put there. “No, God no, Mac. It was never a game to me. What – you think I’d offer you my head, risk my life for you, just on a lark? For its amusement value?”

“Then why? Why couldn’t you share more of yourself than some … _blather_ about how tall Nero was?”

“I don’t know. I – What I did tell you, those were things I _could_ share with you, without scaring you off. And I had come to believe that whatever I had been was so long ago, so far removed, that it couldn’t matter anymore.” He gave another hapless shrug. “Obviously I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

He turned to walk away again, and again was stopped, MacLeod holding him there. “You weren’t wrong – and you wouldn’t have scared me off. I just wish…”

“What?” Methos wanted to stomp out the ember of hope beginning to heat up in his belly. He was only going to add to his mountain of regrets.

“That you had thought better of me, that you would have given me a chance to deal with your past.” MacLeod was looking at him with such…wistfulness, one large hand reached to touch his face lightly. “Can we try again?”

Methos felt the touch of MacLeod’s fingers sizzle right through him. “I guess we could give it a shot,” he said, amazed his voice came out sounding normal.

“No more secrets?”

Methos finally tore his gaze away those probing eyes. “Maybe one.”

“Which is?”

Dodging, Methos said, “We’re getting wet.”

MacLeod shook his head, a look of wry exasperation on his face. “So we are.” He waved his hand at his barge, their steps having unerringly brought them to it. He started up the ramp, pausing a moment to look back at Methos. “Well?”

_What was that expression -- into the lion’s den?_ Methos thought. After another moment’s hesitation, he went up the ramp and followed MacLeod inside with something like a sense of coming home. Methos had felt that right from the start, when MacLeod had brought him back here to keep him safe from Kalas. It was a secret feeling he had quietly treasured, and one of the many losses he had been grieving these last few weeks.

It was hard to believe it could be this easy, though, to slip back into his accustomed place. As he stepped into the salon, still warm from the banked fire, he dearly wished it could be, though. An itsy bitsy squidge of optimism wouldn’t kill him, would it? Just off hand Methos couldn’t recall an incidence where that had proved _outright_ fatal.

Letting MacLeod take his coat, Methos settled into his customary spot on the couch, settling back with something just short of his usual comfortable abandon. This seemed like a moment for a more upright posture, he thought, like there were a few movements to get through yet. Although they had talked at length, cleared the air at least a little, Methos had the feeling there was something else on MacLeod’s mind.

Rather than fret over what that might be, Methos indulged a favorite past time instead: watching MacLeod move around the salon, then into the galley where he was soon immersed in preparing some kind of meal. As always, he enjoyed the younger man’s effortless grace, the sense of contained power. Methos had often wondered just how the man had excelled in the role of secret agent, given that Duncan MacLeod was not the kind to ever blend in with the scenery. Even mortals sensed him; Methos had seen the crowds part like the Red Sea when MacLeod entered a room, every eye, female _and_ male, riveted on him. And more times than not, like now, MacLeod remained utterly oblivious to the attention.

Most of the time Methos was grateful for that. Sometimes, indulging a wild flight of fancy, Methos had imagined that revealing his interest to the younger man – that Methos would like to be a lot more than just friends – would find MacLeod highly receptive to the idea, eager, even. But that had been before Kronos.

_And now, after Kronos?_ Methos wondered _,_ watching MacLeod draining pasta through a colander. He hadn’t dared hope for this reconciliation and it still felt like something exquisitely fragile. Just one, careless handling and it might shatter all to pieces, past repair this time. How could it possibly withstand this last, carefully guarded secret? 

No, that was one secret Methos would keep to himself. MacLeod couldn’t begrudge him this one – he’d more likely thank him for leaving it tucked away.

“Methos?”

Startled, he looked over at the Highlander. “What?”

“I said supper’s ready – you want to come to the table?”

“Yeah, sure.” Methos levered himself up from the couch, looking with some surprise at the table MacLeod had set. It wasn’t extravagant, really, but… Why candles? And when _had_ MacLeod turned the lights down and put that music on? Cocking his head, Methos listened to the sounds coming from the stereo; something Celtic and melancholy, and… Romantic?

Not that it meant anything, of course. It couldn’t. _Could it?_ Methos considered, shooting a surreptitious look at MacLeod and seeing…well, something in those dark eyes. Like he had a really amusing secret and was brimming over with anticipation at letting Methos in on it.

Sitting down and unfolding his napkin, picking up his fork and poking through the pasta, Methos said, “So… What’s the occasion?”

With a smile that was entirely too smug, MacLeod poured out two glasses of an outrageously pricey wine. “Does there have to be an occasion?”

“For us to do something besides eat pizza delivery and drink beer? Yeah, I think there does.”

“Well then,” MacLeod reached over to clink his glass against Methos’, “how about new beginnings?”

“That’s a toast, not an occasion,” Methos said, the pasta suddenly tasteless as he had the sinking sensation in his stomach that he was being teased. Or something. 

MacLeod was watching him intently, head tilted a little, a look of concern in his eyes now. “Something wrong with the food?” he asked softly.

Methos shook his head.

“The wine?”

“No, the wine’s fine.”

MacLeod took a breath, biting his lip for a moment. “The company?”

Methos looked up at him, having the horrible feeling everything in his heart was written on his face – probably in flashing neon. “The company’s great, Mac. It’s just…” _It’s just that I don’t want to be teased. I don’t want to be like Tantalus, cursed to forever have what I most want just out of my reach. I don’t want to play at flirtation and be left wondering if you have any idea what you’re doing to me._ He had thought the worst thing was to be in exile, to be denied MacLeod’s company. Like some near-epiphany, though, Methos now saw that it could be far worse to go on like this, with this sense of being so near and yet so far. How could he say that, though, and not lose even this? Why did he have to choose between a feast or famine? 

MacLeod was looking troubled now, those furrows forming between his brows, eyes almost veiled by the fringe of dark lashes as he gazed at the table, then dared a quick look at Methos. “We all have secrets, Methos,” he said, his tone soft, quiet, as if he were making some confession.

“Yeah – but mine are real doozies,” Methos returned, taking a swallow of the wine.

“You might be surprised,” MacLeod murmured to a forkful of broccoli.

Methos almost choked as he tried to _snerk_ around a mouthful of chicken and pasta. “And what skeletons do you have in your closet? Maybe you were a day late getting your taxes done one year?”

MacLeod gave him an irritated look at that, setting down his glass. “How about if I told you I’m in love with you and you almost broke my heart with your goddamned secrets and evasions?”

Methos could only gape across the table at him, certain he could not have just heard what he thought he had. 

“So,” MacLeod went on, resentment coloring his voice and expression, “where’s the smart ass comeback?”

“Umm,” Methos made a show of looking around, patting his jeans pockets, “looks like I’m all out at the moment.”

The Highlander just glared back at him, mouth set in a determined pout. 

“Mac,” Methos looked down at his plate, shoving a lone noodle around the patterned china, “did you really mean that?”

“What the hell do you think?” MacLeod shot back, obviously still smarting.

“I…” With a deep breath, Methos decided to take the plunge. “I don’t want to _think_ , Mac. I don’t want to have to try and imagine what you’re thinking, or feeling. Did you mean it?” he asked, meeting the other’s eyes straight on.

Whatever MacLeod read in his gaze, it must have been enough. Relaxing, he reached over to cover Methos’ hand with his own where it rested on the table. “Yes, I did. What about you?”

Methos turned his hand to clasp Duncan’s. “What do you think my other secret was?” he said, feeling the knot of tension in his belly come undone at last at the feel of Duncan’s hand in his own, at the warmth shining from his eyes. Daring a little more, he reached over to touch Duncan’s cheek, taking another deep breath and closing his eyes for a moment as Duncan turned his head slightly to press a kiss into his palm. “I think I’ve been falling in love with you for a hundred years or more.” At Duncan’s quizzical look, he explained, “Darius – he was always telling me about you, suggesting we ought to meet, that it would be the peachy keenest thing in the world.”

Duncan grinned at that. “Somehow I can’t picture him putting it that way.”

“Yeah, well, that was the gist.”

Duncan turned his hand on the table so he could stroke a thumb over the inside of Methos’ wrist. “Is that why you stayed to meet me, instead of running for the ends of earth when you knew I was coming to see Adam Pierson?”

Closing his eyes, Methos took a moment to savor the warm tingle that was spreading through him, just from that light brush against his skin. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Think he had anything like this in mind for us?” Duncan said, bringing Methos’ hand to his lips and pressing one delicate kiss to each fingertip.

“Uhh,” Methos swallowed, licked his lips, “I wouldn’t put it past him. He set me up with three of my wives.”

Laughing, suddenly so much younger and carefree, Duncan stood up and brought Methos with him, pulling him close. “Did you really have sixty-eight wives?”

“More or less.” How was it possible that a few hours ago he’d been lost in a cold funk of despair, and now he was basking in Duncan’s warmth? Held close to that body he had dreamt of – embraced just as fervently; that utterly sinful mouth making a slow, intimate exploration of his face, his ear – finally, _finally_ his mouth. Kisses that nibbled, that teased, that coaxed his lips to part so a wet and agile tongue could delve within and play tag with his own?

“Wow,” Methos murmured when Duncan finally withdrew. “No wonder Amanda keeps coming back.”

“Maybe she’s never had a taste of you.” Duncan didn’t quite make it a question.

Methos didn’t quite answer. “Could be.”

Duncan stroked a thumb over a sharp cheekbone. “Didn’t we just say something about no more secrets?”

“Nah, you imagined it,” Methos teased back.

“Umm hmm.” Duncan nuzzled his ear. “What am I going to do with you?”

Methos trusted that was strictly a rhetorical question and slipped up hand around to unfasten the silver clasp that secured Duncan’s hair, satisfying another fantasy as he ran his hands through the think, silky waves of dark hair. “So what happens now?”

“This,” Duncan kissed an eyelid, “and this,” then a cheek, the tip of his nose, “and lots of this,” and captured Methos’ mouth in another long, deep kiss.

Feeling a hand slip under his sweater and find a nipple to exquisitely torment, Methos groaned and pulled back a little. “Bed?”

“Thought you hated my sheets?”

“Yeah, well, they probably look better with you in them. _Duncan_ ,” Methos groaned the half-hearted protest as the Highlander pressed a hand to the front of Methos’ jeans, squeezing gently.

Pressing a quick kiss to his lips, Duncan took the hint and steered Methos over to the bed, a trail of discarded clothes left in their wake. “Happy now?” he said, lowering Methos to the sheets.

Tugging him down beside him, Methos nodded. “Getting there.” He ran his hands over Duncan’s chest, the sun-kissed skin as warm and smooth as it looked, velvet stretched taut over steel, dusted with fine dark hair that tickled his fingers. “Definitely getting there,” he murmured, dipping his head to run his tongue around one dark pink nipple, suckle at it. “You are so beautiful,” he sighed, his hands eager to touch, his mouth hungry to taste.

The light was dim but he could have sworn Duncan blushed. “You don’t exactly crack mirrors, you know. I bet there are supermodels who’d kill for those cheekbones.”

“And plastic surgeons who could make their fortunes on my nose.”

Duncan kissed the offended feature. “There is nothing wrong with your nose. It fits your face perfectly. Besides, looks like it’s true.”

Methos quirked an eyebrow. “What’s true?”

“What they say: big nose, big – umph!” Duncan found himself shifted onto his back, Methos straddling him.

“So, let’s see if you speak softly but carry a big sword.” Methos hadn’t expected to find laughter here, like this, but it only made it sweeter. Made the whole damned mess worthwhile.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 1998, and orginally appeared in a print zine called Revelation #1. It appears here with revisions.
> 
> The title is from Keats' _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_.


End file.
